I stood up. "No, ma'am. It's even more of a strain when you have the cover up like that, because I know what's under it. I have chores to do. How many five-dollar bills did you send her?"
"I didn't count. It was in August, so the first one was September first, and then every month." The coverlet slipped down.
"Including May? Twelve days ago?"
"Yes."
"That makes nine. They're in Mr. Wolfe's safe. I told Mrs. Perez she'd get them back some day, but since they were hush money you have a valid claim.'' I took a step, stretched an arm, curved my fingers around her leg, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "See? Conditioned reflex. I'd better go." I turned and walked out. Mike, the female sergeant, appeared from somewhere as I reached the foyer, but let me open the door myself. Down in the lobby I took a moment to tell the hall-man, "You can relax. We found them in her jewel box. The maid thought they were earrings." It pays to be on sociable terms with lobby sentries. As I emerged to the sidewalk my watch said 3:40, so Wolfe would be in the office, and I found a phone booth down the block and dialed.
His voice came. "Yes?" He will not answer the phone properly.
"Me. In a booth on Madison Avenue. Money paid to a blackmailer is recoverable, so those bills belong to Meg Duncan. Maria Perez spotted her in the hall a year ago and went to see her and bled her for nine months, five bucks per month. One of the biggest operations in the history of crime. Meg Duncan worked last night and went straight home from the theater and went to bed. I saw the bed and sat on it. Probably true, say twenty to one. From here it's only about eight minutes to the Yeager house. Shall I go there first?"
"No. Mrs. Yeager phoned, and I told her you would be there between five and six. She expects you to take her to see that room. Your problem."
"Don't I know it. You said when I called in you might want to send me to Saul or Fred or Orrie.''
"I thought it possible, but no. Proceed." As I went out to the curb to flag a taxi I was reflecting on Maria's practical horse sense and fine feeling. If you happen to have ah autographed photograph of a person whom you are screwing for hush money, you don't keep it. The autographer had of course written something like "Best regards" or "All good wishes," and now that she was your victim it wouldn't be right to hang on to it.
14
I had no appointment with Mr. or Mrs. Austin Hough, because, first, I hadn't known when 1 would finish with Meg Duncan, and second, I preferred to have one of them alone, it didn't matter which. So when I pushed the button in the vestibule at 64 Eden Street I didn't know if there would be anyone at home. There was. The click came; I opened the door and entered, and mounted the stairs. I wasn't awaited at the door of the apartment as before; he was standing at the top of the second flight. As I reached the landing he backed up a step. He wasn't glad to see me.
"Back again," I said politely. "Did you find your wife yesterday?"
"What do you want?" he demanded.
"Nothing startling. A couple of questions. There has been a development that complicates it a little. You probably know about it, the murder of a girl named Maria Perez."
"No. I haven't been out today. I haven't seen a paper. Who is Maria Perez?"
"Not is, was. Then the radio?"
"I haven't turned it on. Who was she?"
"The daughter of the man you saw when you went to that house on Eighty-second Street. Her body was found last night on a North River pier. She was killed, shot, between nine o'clock and midnight. Mr. Wolfe is wondering how you spent the evening. And your wife."
''Balls," he said.
My brows went up in astonishment. He certainly hadn't got that from Robert Browning, though an Elizabethan dramatist might have used it that way. I wasn't up on Elizabethan dramatists. Wherever he had got it, this was a different Austin Hough from the one I had felt sorry for yesterday afternoon - not only that word so used, but his face and bearing. This Hough wasn't asking any favors.
"So," he said, "you want to know how my wife spent last evening? You'd better ask her. Come on." He turned and headed down the hall, and I followed. The door was open. There was no foyer inside. The room, not large, had the furniture of a living room, but the walls were all books. He crossed to a door at the far end, opened it, and motioned me in. Two steps from the sill I stopped dead.
He had killed her. Granting that you shouldn't jump to conclusions, you often do, and for the second time that afternoon I saw a young woman in bed, only this one was completely covered, including her head. Not by a coverlet; a plain white sheet followed her contours, and as we entered there was no sign of movement. A corpse. I stood and stared, but Hough, passing me, spoke.
"It's Archie Goodwin, Dinah. A girl was murdered last night." He turned to me. "What was her name?"
"Maria Perez."
He turned back. "Maria Perez. She lived in that house. Goodwin wants to know what you were doing last evening between nine o'clock and midnight, and I thought you had better tell him. He saw you there in that house yesterday, so I thought he might as well see you now."
Her voice came from beneath the sheet, a mumble that I wouldn't have recognized. "No, Austin, I won't."
"But you will. Don't start it again." He was only a step from the bed. He took it, reached for the top of the sheet, and pulled it back.
I have seen better-looking corpses. The right side of her face was far from normal, but it was nothing compared to the left side. The eye was swollen shut, and the swollen cheek and jaw were the color of freshly sliced calves' liver. Her best curves, of her wide, full mouth, were puffy folds of purple. She was on her back. Her garment had just straps, no sleeves, and from the appearance of her shoulders and upper arms she couldn't have been on her side. I couldn't tell where her one eye was aimed. Hough, one hand holding the sheet, turned to me. "I told you yesterday," he said, "that I wanted her to know I knew, but I couldn't tell her. I was afraid of what would happen if I told her. Now it has happened." He turned to her. "He wants to know where you were between nine o'clock and midnight. Tell him and he'll go."
"I was here." It was a mumble, but I got it. "Where I am now. By nine o'clock I was like this."
"Your husband left you here like this?"
"He didn't leave me. He was here with me."
"Balls," Hough said, to me. "I came here when I left you and Wolfe, and she was here, and I haven't been out of here since. Now you have seen her, and she has told you, and you can go."
"She's your wife, not mine," I said, "but has a doctor seen her?"
"No. I was filling the ice bags when you rang the bell."
I made my eyes go to her. "Shall I send a doctor, Mrs. Hough?"
"No," she said.
"Send her a bottle of champagne," he said.
And I did. That is, I sent champagne, but not to her, on impulse. When I went to Seventh Avenue to get a taxi, after I had phoned Wolfe to report on the Houghs and tell him I was on my way to Mrs. Yeager, I saw a liquor store and went in and asked if he happened to have a bottle of Dom Perignon, and he did. I told him to send it to Mr. Austin Hough, 64 Eden Street, and enclose a card on which I wrote "With the compliments of Archie Goodwin." Preferring to make it a personal matter, I didn't put it on expense. I have often wondered whether he dumped it in the garbage, or drank it himself, or shared it with her.
When I left the taxi in front of 340 East 68th Street, at two minutes past five, I stood for a glance around before going to the entrance. Here was where it had started three days ago. There was where the NYPD car had been double-parked with Purley Stebbins' driver in it. Around the corner was the lunchroom where I had phoned Lon Cohen. As I entered the vestibule to push the button I asked myself, if I had known what was ahead would I have given Mike Collins the extra forty bucks? But I didn't answer because I didn't know what was still ahead.